


Chilling

by KnightNight7203



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She thought by now she'd be used to the screaming, but each fresh shriek still sets her teeth on edge and sends goosebumps tingling down the length of her spine." In which Katherine walks into a sort of Refuge of her own — and realizes that walking out won't be anywhere near as easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is nothing but the water, icy fingers stabbing at her skin, liquid seeping into the rough fabric of her dress and washing the color in her cheeks away with it. First comes the shivering, then the numbness. The folded scrap of paper tucked in her painfully-tight braid must be damaged beyond repair now. She’s certain her lungs are as she gasps for a breath.

The wind whistles through the vacant hall with a chilling moan, swirling over the droplets on her skin and making her teeth chatter all the harder. Footsteps circle around her, and she can’t tell where the next onslaught is going to come from. There’s no warning, just the cold. It always catches her by surprise.

 _Next time you’ll take your bath like a good girl_ , the sneering voices whisper in her ear. If she’s lucky, there won’t be a next time. This shouldn’t happen ever again.

The things she’s going to write when she gets out of this. She’ll shut the place down for sure. No elaborate coverup, no amount of lies, could possibly erase the fact that this is happening. When she gets out, they’re going to wish they’d never heard her name.

 _If_ she gets out.

For the first time in years, she wishes for her father.

* * *

She thought by now she’d be used to the screaming, but each fresh shriek still sets her teeth on edge and sends goosebumps tingling down the length of her spine. She can’t tell if the night nurses are doing something to provoke it or if the poor girls are simply terrified and genuinely insane — she wishes she could see what is going on more clearly. She also wishes she had a pencil, something to record what she hears. But she doesn’t. They took it away, first thing.

The shadows on the walls seem lengthened, seem like they’re moving, seem darker than should be possible and ringed with light like hellfire. That’s probably in her head, though — she’s starting to doubt her own sanity, wonder if this place is actually driving her mad too. She’s certain it’s done so for some of the other girls. Many of the people she’s met don’t deserve to be here, and none of them deserve to be treated like this.

The door is thick and solid and very securely locked — she’s checked several times. There is no way out, no way for her to leave even if she wanted to. She wonders if this is how Jack felt in the Refuge.

At least he knew he would be released sooner or later. She isn’t sure anyone’s coming for her anymore.

* * *

“You know it’s dangerous to lock the doors at night,” she says seriously, peering at the man with a distasteful expression. “What if there was a fire? The girls would burn.”

He sighs, clicking his tongue softly. “Now now, Kitty. Everyone is perfectly safe here. The nurses have been instructed to open the doors at the first sign of danger.”

That’s what they call her here. Kitty, Kitty Parker. Only her initials are the same, though she can’t remember why that was important now. Even if they did realize who she is, they aren’t anywhere near competent enough to discover she’s actually sane, undercover, a spy. They see what they want to see, and their science is nothing more than dusty files that are never looked at again. She’s lost faith in the entire institution, and she didn’t have much to begin with.

“What if the nurses don’t unlock the doors?”

“They will.” His voice carries a note of finality, and she decides not to push her luck. Not when there are hardened, emotionless nurses waiting just beyond the closed door to take her back to her cell. So many doors are closed here. It makes it hard to breathe. “But we’re not here to talk about our policies, Kitty. We’re here to talk about you.”

“I don’t want to,” she replies, quite honestly. “I find this place so much more fascinating.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he replies calmly, waving the nurse in, and before she’s fully aware of what’s happening she’s been poked and measured and used to fill out another yellowed sheet of notes that proves a lie.

* * *

It’s easier for her to identify which girls are sane than it is for the doctors to write them all off as crazy. She can’t seem to stop herself from defending them, even though she knows deep down it will only make it harder for everyone in the end.

Mary is small and mouselike and holds her arm at a funny angle, because her husband injured her when he came home drunk one evening and the bone was never allowed to set. She was sent to the island as soon as it became clear she meant to speak out about her treatment.

“Men shouldn’t treat women any differently than they treat each other!” Katherine exclaims to anyone who will listen when she finds out. Unfortunately she has attracted the attention of the wrong audience, but she keeps going nonetheless. “That’s barbaric, it’s inhumane, and it’s just plain wrong! Why lock someone up for wanting to feel safe?”

She can see enough of the clipboard in front of her to make out some of the scribbles. Her mind fills in the rest: _Unable to comprehend a woman’s place in society. Insanity inhibits functionality. Critical._

“Of course, look who I’m talking to about humanity,” she mutters under her breath, infuriated, but apparently the nurse hears. She doesn’t see the fist until it’s already connecting with her face. And she’d thought they’d been exaggerating about the beatings.

When she comes to there’s a bruise on her cheek and a sick feeling in her stomach, and she lies on the floor with tears dripping down her nose trying to remember why exactly she doesn’t want Jack to come and save her right now.

But she’s made it this far. She can last.

She has to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation/ history time!
> 
> As many of you may know, the writers of Newsies actually had a historical basis in mind when creating Katherine: Nellie Bly. She was a female journalist who worked in Pittsburgh and New York during the late 1800s and early 1900s, and one of her most famous articles was written about her time spent feigning insanity at the Asylum on Blackwell's Island in New York. She exposed all sorts of horrible conditions there, and was instrumental in raising awareness about treatment of the insane and getting the place shut down. I guess you could call this a tribute to her achievements, and my way of linking Katherine to her inspiration.
> 
> Also, if any of you have time, you should definitely read her exposé Ten Days in a Madhouse. It's available for free online, and very fascinating. I just reread it last night, and it never fails to impress me. Her skills as a reporter – and as a human for doing something like that – are enviable.

Pulitzer may be less than thrilled by a certain newsboy’s presence in his office early Tuesday morning, but Jack Kelly doesn’t care. He wants answers, and he’s not leaving until he gets them.

“Look, Joe.” He shakes his head. “I know we’ve had our differences, but whatever you told Katherine, can you tell her to forget it? Please? I ain’t – I _haven’t_ seen her in over a week. I don’t know why this is such a big deal all of a sudden.”

Pulitzer stares disinterestedly at him over the rims of his glasses. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, boy.”

“Seriously?” Jack snorts. “You told her not to come to the lodging house.” He raises his eyebrows questioningly, suddenly confused. “Didn’t you?”

Pushing himself out of his chair, the older man crosses the room to stand by the window. Jack feels like it’s for dramatic effect – the way the glow offers backlighting is quite impressive, the artist in him can’t deny that. He squints to make out Pulitzer’s face, and isn’t sure if he’s comforted or not by the lack of concern he sees.

“While my daughter’s . . . relations with you are regrettable, she is an adult. Whose name no longer ties her to me in any way. So she does as she pleases, which you, of all people, should know.”

“So you didn’t tell her to stay away from me?”

Pulitzer shakes his head. “Regrettable, but no. And it’s not as if she would have listened if I had.”

“Then where the hell – sorry, heck – has she been?”

“Ah.” Pulitzer raises a finger, like this is the reveal he’s been waiting for. “That I do know. She’s on an assignment for me.”

Jack blinks. He’d known Katherine had written a few articles for her father when the editor of the _Sun_ was belittling her work, but it’s news to him that the _World_ would actively recruit her for an investigation. “For a whole week?” he asks incredulously.

“Ten days,” Pulitzer corrects. Then he glances down at his watch and turns away. “In fact, I’m due to pick her up now. Good day, Mr. Kelly.”

The heavy oak doors close behind him with a bang, leaving Jack alone in his office. He’s not used to being on this side of those doors slamming. In any other circumstance he might enjoy being left here, in this fancy room with the expensive chairs and the plush rugs quilting the floor. Without knowing where Katherine is, though – there’s a nervousness in the pit of his stomach he can’t explain.

Why didn’t she tell him where she was going?

* * *

He catches up to Pulitzer’s carriage several blocks down the street, where it’s stopped for a wagon in the middle of the lane.

“Hey, Joe,” he says amiably, tugging the door open and slipping inside. “How’s about I go with ya, huh?” He smiles, very forced. It kills him to ask this man for anything, but he can’t shake his sudden discomfort with the whole situation. The sooner he sees Katherine, the better.

“How about you don’t,” Pulitzer fires back, adjusting his newspaper so that eye contact is no longer possible. “Please remove yourself from my carriage at once.”

“Like hell I will,” Jack mutters, plopping down opposite him in the cab. He finds himself face to face with the man’s name in bold type across the front of the paper. _Pulitzer’s sympathy knows no bounds,_ the headline boasts. It’s as if it’s mocking him. _The World_ is such a quality piece of literature.

Pulitzer huffs out an impatient breath at his immobility, casting his paper aside to ready himself for a verbal spar. But before he gets the chance to give Jack a piece of his mind, the coachman raps on the window and pokes his head inside.

“The street’s backed up ahead,” he informs his boss. “We’re going to approach Blackwell’s another way.”

Pulitzer says something authoritative in response, but Jack hears none of it. The coachman’s words echo through his mind. _Blackwell, Blackwell._ It sounds familiar, so achingly familiar. Then it hits him, like a block of ice dropping through his stomach.

“Hold up. That’s where they keep the crazy people. The insane ones the cops drag away.”

Both Pulitzer and the coachman turn to stare at him. Their expressions aren’t impressed, or surprised by this news in any way.

“Katherine’s on the island with the crazy people?”

The sigh Pulitzer lets out is equally exhausted and patronizing. “She is currently a guest of the asylum, yes. We’re going to run an exposé.”

Jack doesn’t just hawk the papers – he reads them, too. He’s seen the stories about Blackwell, the unconfirmed rumors, the laments of relatives seeking their loved ones locked deep within the cold stone walls of the asylum. He’s never heard stories from anyone who got out, though, and he can’t help but feel that there’s a reason for that.

“What are you, nuts? She can’t be there! We need to–“

“What we need, Mr. Kelly, is for you to be silent. As I was saying–“ With a stern glare, Pulitzer turns to offer more instructions, but Jack interrupts him.

“It doesn’t matter what he was saying. You get there as fast as you can, and you do it now.”

Maybe it’s the panic in his voice, or the angry glow of his eyes, but the coachman does as he is told without another word. And this time, Pulitzer doesn’t try to stop him.

* * *

He can smell the crazy on the island the second his feet touch the shore.

There’s something sick about the air, a combination of silence and stillness and heaviness that pushes down on his shoulders and makes it hard to breathe. There’s no breeze, but he can feel his skin tingling. It reminds him of the Refuge, but more structured.

Less alive.

Inside, the smallest footstep echoes long and loud around the high ceiling, giving a surreal and disorienting quality to the whole place. But it’s the screaming that really distinguishes the mood from the death-like stillness outside. Jack can hear women’s voices, high and clear. They sound like they’re terrified.

They sound like they’re in pain.

The woman at the desk asks if she can help them, and he wants to ignore her. He wants to push past her, run down the hall, pound on every door until he finds Katherine and makes sure she’s not the source of that horrible wailing. But he forces himself to stay calm. It won’t help anyone if he gets himself locked up, too.

Can this woman not hear the screaming? Or does she just not care? How can anyone listen to this, day after day, and not go mad themselves?

Making up his mind, he glares at her. She seems unmoved still, and a sudden urge to punch her overtakes him. He resists. “We’re here to see–“

“Kitty Parker.”

He jumps. He’d almost forgotten Pulitzer was here.

“Huh? Kit–“

“Yes, Kitty Parker.” Pulitzer pushes past him and addresses the woman. “I heard from a friend she was brought here. I wish to secure her release and bring her back to her father.”

She studies them for a moment, her face pinched in an unattractive manner and her fingers tapping doubtfully on the scratched surface of the desk. Finally she stands, waving them toward chairs arranged against the wall.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

Jack can’t remember hearing anything less reassuring in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

She isn’t even sure how everything came out — she’d been doing so well. She hadn’t expected today to be any different. But then they’d started threatening that poor little mute girl, and she lost her head completely. How dare they go after someone who can’t defend herself? How dare they talk down to a person they know can’t respond and push her around and punish her even though she didn’t do anything wrong?

The worst part was her expression. She understood every word they were saying, Katherine is sure of it. The silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned away were a testament of that.

They give her one final chance to redeem herself after her outburst. But she will never take it, not in a million years, because who else does that girl have? And if this is a lie, then so is everything else, and she won’t stand for that. She can’t.

“Why would you say you’re Joseph Pulitzer’s daughter? You do know that’s not true, don’t you Kitty? That’s why you’re here – you have no family that cares about you. We’re all you have left.”

The doctor says it gently, no sarcastic tone like the nasty nurses might. But for some reason, that hurts even more. It rings truer that way, not something said in a wave of bitterness but a genuine evaluation. She squirms in the chair, blinking back tears.

Her father is coming, she knows this. He’ll come soon. Jack would come too, only he doesn’t know where she is. He’s probably worried, though. It’s been so long.

She’s lost track of the days.

“I’m not crazy,” she whispers. No one was meant to overhear her, but the doctor does. He shakes his head sadly.

“I guess it’s time,” he murmurs softly to the nurse looming behind her. She leads Katherine away.

* * *

She doesn’t like needles. She doesn’t like needles at all.

She started to panic when the nurse pulled out the straps to bind her to the chair, but the silvery thorns glistening threateningly in the dim light are the final straw. Her muscles are tense as she tugs at her bindings. There’s no way she’ll get them loose in time.

“Please,” she whispers, but there’s no point. A part of her is convinced there’s a sinister smile splitting across the nurse’s face, that she’s enjoying this. But then, if the pleas of the insane bothered her, this wouldn’t exactly be an ideal place for employment. Of course she’s immune to the panic, the suffering. It would almost be easier to enjoy it, to revel in the suffering.

Katherine certainly isn’t going to enjoy it.

This is only worth it if she can remember her findings, if she can use her experiences to reveal the conditions of the asylum to New York. To the world. If she’s pumped so full of drugs that her mind can’t focus, that she’s left in the same fog with the same dull eyes and slack expressions she’s seen among the other girls, then what was the point? Everything she’s done will have been for nothing.

But then, maybe this could add more to her story. If she can get proof of the drugs they’re using, the untested, inhumane ways they’re experimenting on the patients, then her article might cause even more of a stir. If it’s going to happen anyway, she may as well let it happen in the name of science. In the name of justice.

She still squirms away as the nurse approaches her, and gets slapped across the face for her troubles. It sends pain throbbing through the already-bruised skin.

She feels the needle slide in, just below her elbow. It may be just her imagination, but she thinks she can feel the liquid running through her veins as well, fanning out with every beat of her heart until it’s reached the furthest corners of her body.

And then nothing. Only numbness of body and mind.

She is calmer than she has been throughout this entire ordeal. The nurse’s face is spinning, but it’s easier to deal with this way – she can’t focus on the expression, can’t feel the way the judgmental glare works its way into her confidence and leaves her timid and afraid. The bindings aren’t cutting into her wrists anymore, or maybe it’s just that she’s not fighting against them, but either way it’s far less painful.

She doesn’t remember how she gets back to her cell, but she’s pretty sure she doesn’t walk. Her legs don’t support her on her way to the bed. She makes it halfway before collapsing to the floor, and it seems comfortable there, so she makes the executive decision to stay. The blackness drizzles in, and she lets it. She tries to categorize the feeling for later, but it slips away with what’s left of her awareness.

If only she had a pencil.

* * *

It takes her a long time to realize there’s a man in her cell, and even longer to recognize that it’s Jack. He’s standing just inside the door, staring at her, holding himself with a stillness that shows his shock and horror. She is glad to see him. She wants him to hold her.

Only, she doesn’t want him to be here. She can remember that now. But why? She knows it has something to do with her assignment. She has to stay so she can save people.

But also because he shouldn’t see her like this. He shouldn’t be here.

She wonders if he can smell the crazy in the air. The silence and heaviness and death that presses down on you until it’s hard to remain upright. She can’t feel it anymore, but she remembers feeling something when she first came to the island. It must be hard for Jack. It must remind him of the Refuge.

She doesn’t want Jack to feel the craziness tiptoeing along his skin.

A new figure stoops down beside her, but the white hair and beard are equally familiar, if not more so. “Father,” she whispers. He nods, taking her by her arm and pulling her upright.

“Thank you, nurse,” he says to the woman guarding the doorway. He leads Katherine past her, and she looks down to avoid eye contact. “I daresay you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

“I’m still not sure this is advisable,” the woman says, following them down a dark hallway and up a flight of stairs. “We’re at a critical stage. I’m not sure it’s wise to remove Miss Parker from the hospital; in fact, the doctors may not permit it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he responds conversationally, pushing the door open with a bang and motioning for Jack to lead the way outside. Katherine squints, the bright sunlight stinging her eyes and the wind quickly robbing her of what little warmth she had left.

“Hold on,” she murmurs, not ready to leave without some parting advice. Pulitzer raises an eyebrow, but pauses so she can turn back to the nurses gathered in the entrance hall.

“Something we can help you with, Kitty?” one calls sarcastically. She can tell how much they’d love to drag her back. This is a game for them, and they are losing. They don’t even know how badly they are about to lose, but they must be able to feel it’s coming.

“Yes,” she says, her voice steely. “You can remember my name: Katherine Pulitzer. You might see it in a paper in a few weeks.” With that she whirls away, leaving the nurses looking between her and her father with understanding – and horror – dawning on their expressions.

Tugging away from her father’s grip, she walks through the door on her own. She makes it several feet down the path before her knees give out and she starts to collapse again. But Jack is there – of course he is – and he scoops her into his arms. Like a hero.

He carries her back to the carriage, where she falls asleep in his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

His immediate fear is that she’ll get sick. Her clothes are damp for some reason, and she’s shivering, her teeth chattering violently in a way that makes him press her face to his chest just to keep her from hurting herself. But of course she demands to go to Pulitzer’s office, climbing down from the carriage and marching up the steps and through the door without any help. She barely stumbles.

“That’s some kid you got there,” he murmurs to Pulitzer. He grunts in assent. Jack still can’t get over his apparent lack of concern at the state of his daughter, though. If it was up to him, he’d drag her to bed right now. To sleep, that is. Before she gets sick.

Inside the office, Katherine pulls a vial of something from inside her dress and slaps it down in front of Pulitzer. “That’s what they give the patients,” she says, shaking her head. “I have no idea what it is, but if you find out, let me know.” Wandering over to one of the typewriters at a desk, she falls into the chair and types a few notes before shoving it away and resting her head on her hands.

Jack kneels in front of her, rubbing her back gently. “How’d you get that, Ace?”

She looks up, narrowing her eyes at him. “What do you mean? I told you, they give it to the patients when they get too upset. It calms them down or something. I stole some when they weren’t looking.”

“Morphine, maybe?” Pulitzer suggests, staring at the vial. But Jack ignores him. He’s too busy studying her face. Something is off.

“Did they give it to you too?”

She blinks, looking away quickly. “Why would you think that? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t lie to me, Ace.”

“I’m not.”

He shakes his head, spinning away from her to pace across the room. “Oh yeah? For one thing, your pupils are huge. You ain’t exactly steady on your feet, and you’re slurring your words. Should I go on?”

“I am _not_ slurring my words,” she huffs. He sighs, returning to her side and cradling her face in his hands.

“Seriously, Ace. Don’t think I don’t recognize stuff like this. I’ve seen it enough on the streets.”

Blinking back tears, she presses her cheek harder into his palm. He thinks she’s trying to absorb the warmth from his skin. “Am I going to die?” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Is it poisonous? My head feels so strange . . .”

He shakes his head, quickly, smiling a little and pulling her into a hug. She really had no clue what she was getting herself into. “Course not,” he promises. “You just need to sleep it off.”

Her businesslike manner returns immediately, like a switch was flipped. “I have to finish this, Jack. I can’t go home.”

“Seriously? Do you not want to change into something dry and sleep in a bed again?” After getting out of the Refuge, that’s the first thing he’d done.

“I can’t,” she says distractedly, her attention already back on her article.

His fingers play with her hair absently as she types, gently easing it out of the tight braid they must have arranged it in at the asylum. Though damp, the curls are limp and matted once they’re freed, and he can tell it hasn’t been washed in days. Probably ten. He swallows thickly as he begins to imagine again what she must have faced there.

“I’m just leaving a blank space for the drug for now,” she says to no one in particular, pausing to rub her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Don’t forget to include any names you can remember,” Pulitzer adds. “We can’t be afraid to make this a personal attack if we’re going to gain the attention of the local government.”

She nods determinedly, though she can’t suppress a yawn. Jack, who’s leaning against her shoulder and fiddling absently with a strand of hair, can feel her shaking as she takes a deep, shuddering breath. She’s about ready to drop, he knows it. It’s killing him to see her like this.

“All right,” he says finally, glaring at Pulitzer. “I’m takin’ her home now. And there ain’t nothing you can say to stop me.”

“Jack.” Katherine opens her mouth to argue, resisting his efforts to pull her to her feet, but he shakes his head.

“You can’t change my mind either,” he murmurs into her hair. “You need rest. You can finish the damn article tomorrow.”

She sighs, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. He gives up trying to get her to walk and heaves her into his arms.

“But I don’t want to wait,” she whispers. “Those girls deserve better.” He can still feel her shaking against him. It’s getting worse – the air is colder now that the sun has sunk below the horizon, and her thick skirts still haven’t completely dried.

“Ace, they deserve a well-written article,” he says, mostly because he knows it’ll shut her up. “You’ve been staring at the same word for the past fifteen minutes – it ain’t helping them gettin’ yourself sick. They’ll still be there tomorrow either way.”

He doesn’t even know why he’s still fighting – he’s already carried her to the door. Perhaps it’s to appease her father, whose glare he can feel even though his back is to the older man, or to ease her conscience. Either way, it works. Pulitzer says nothing as they walk out into the chilly evening, and Katherine has dozed off again in his arms.

 

“Do you know what the worst part is?” she whispers later, after she’s clean and dry and wrapped in blankets and his arms.

He shakes his head, blinking down at her. She’s curled against his side, clutching his hand tightly with both of hers. He squeezes them tighter, trying to make her feel better.

Her voice is dull. “I wasn’t even acting crazy. After I caught their attention, I just acted like myself.”

“Aw, Ace.” He pulls her closer, wrapping his free arm around her waist and pulling his knees up behind hers until he’s curled around her protectively. “You ain’t crazy if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t know what I mean.” She closes her eyes, sighs heavily. “Part of the time, I would catch myself wondering. I mean, even if I was sane when I went in, the things going on in there – it’s enough to drive anyone mad.”

“It’s normal to wonder,” he assures her. “You don’t even wanna know what you start thinkin’ about after bein’ in the Refuge for awhile.”

She shakes her head – she gave up asking about the Refuge ages ago, hoping it would help Jack’s nightmares go away. And it has, a little. “Then, the rest of the time, I was just angry. I mean, just think how many other girls there must be who aren’t crazy! They just can’t convince anyone of that, since the doctors and nurses don’t listen.”

“That won’t be true for much longer,” he reminds her proudly. “Your article’s gonna save ‘em all.”

She frowns, studying his face. “Are you mad at me?” she asks. He frowns back, her erratic mind moving far too fast for him to follow.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I didn’t tell you what I was doing.”

Oh. He presses a tiny kiss to the top of her head. “Nah. I wish you woulda told me, yeah. But you did the right thing.” He shakes his head tiredly. “What kind of world do we live in where we have to risk ourselves if we wanna help somebody else?”

She lets out a little sigh that tickles his skin. It makes him sad, how hopeless it sounds. “A hellish one, for sure.”

“For sure,” he says, smiling slightly. Maybe that phrase will cheer her up. And sure enough, she returns his grin, though hers is slow and sleepy.

“But then, I guess it’s the only world we’ve got,” she reminds him, and he nods seriously.

“That’s why we’ve gotta clean it up. Fix what the grown-ups did so it won’t be like this forever.”

“If anyone can do it,” she murmurs, rolling over to face him and burying her face in his shirt. Her hair fans out across the pillow, shiny and arranged in her natural curls once more.

He reaches back to switch off the light, then pulls the covers all the way up to her chin so she stays warm. She’s stopped shivering now, and her breathing has evened out as the drugs start to wear off.

“This is a good start, Ace. Don’t worry. This is a damn good start.”


	5. Chapter 5

Not for the first time, she’s woken by the screams.

It’s so dark she can barely see, the blackness pressing in on all sides. There’s a biting chill in the air, but that’s not the only reason she shivers. Apprehension – her own – sparks through the air, almost tangible, definitely suffocating.

Footsteps. She can hear the footsteps, slow and heavy, getting closer and closer by the second. And all the while, the screaming in the distance continues, from the girls who were already visited and the ones who know it is coming yet. She wants to scream too, but she’s so tired.

She knows it’s coming, the icy water and prying fingers and harsh words. Their presence is all around her, their condescending stares weighing her down as she lies on the hard bed. She wants to move, to run, but she can’t. She’s literally restrained, she can’t get away no matter how hard she struggles, the grip on her arms is too tight–

“Calm down, Ace. It’s me. It’s just me. I ain’t gonna let anyone hurt ya.”

Of course – none of it was real. His voice is soft, and his hands are gentle as they keep her from falling off the bed. His face is close to hers; she can feel his breath against her cheek, takes comfort in the smell of ink and paint that she’s come to associate with him now.

“Jack?” Her breath is ragged and rough, her eyes stinging as she forces them open. The room is lit by pale blue moonlight filtering through the curtains. She’s dry and wrapped securely in his arms; she’s safe.

Rolling away from him anyway, she crawls to the edge of her bed and hunches over, trying to regain her breath. Jack makes a sympathetic face but doesn’t reach out. She’s grateful for that – she doesn’t want him to touch her, and it’s nice that he understands – until she realizes that that kind of awareness only comes from personal experience and cringes. Now she feels even worse – he’s had too much exposure to nightmares already.

“I was just about to wake you up,” he says apologetically once she’s calmed down. “Sorry. That was a bad one.”

“What do you mean?” she rasps, looking at him questioningly. Now he does extend his arms to her, letting her crawl into his lap and curl up against his chest.

He sighs. “You’ve been tossing and turning all night. I’m surprised you haven’t scared yourself awake till now, honestly.”

“Sorry,” she gulps into his shirt. “Just when you started sleeping through the night, too.”

“It ain’t your fault, Ace.”

But it is. She’s sleeping when she should be helping those girls. Maybe it’s their tormented spirits that are stopping her from resting easy.

“This’ll stop as soon as the article’s done,” she promises him. “I just need to–“

“You just need to sleep.”

She glowers up at him, though she’s still leaning against him heavily. “I _need_ to write. Like, right now. Jack Kelly, stop making that face at me!”

“Then quit deserving the face,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. But his hands are rubbing soothing patterns on her back and his heartbeat is constant in her ear, so she quiets, letting out a little sigh.

“I don’t think I _can_ sleep again,” she says finally, burying her nose in his chest at the admission. Living through it once was bad enough, and if anyone’s going to understand that it’s him. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

“I haven’t seen you for ten days, Ace,” he says. “Sleep ain’t that important right now.”

She wants to let him know how sweet that is, or maybe swat at him and tell him he’s an idiot and should rest while he can, but she just ends up coughing instead. She groans – she hadn’t counted on getting sick, too.

“You really should sleep,” he tells her worriedly. “I don’t want you to get typhoid or somethin’. I hear that’s a problem in those places.”

“Just one of many.” She sighs, shakes her head. “I had it when I was little, and I didn’t catch it again when my mother and sister were sick. I think I’m safe.”

He frowns a little at her admission – she realizes she’s never talked about their deaths before – but only hugs her tighter. “Yeah, well, you could still get pneumonia. You’re shivering again.”

“I promise, I’m fine,” she says, more to reassure him than because she actually feels healthy. “Just a little cold.”

“Maybe the shower would warm you up?” he suggests hopefully. She smiles slightly – the boys are all still convinced that her shower is the cure for everything: Crutchie’s sore leg, Albert’s seemingly incurable hunger, Specs’s irritable moods. They even tried to drag Spot to her door once, claiming they knew how to make him a nicer person. As he got away before they arrived, she doubts they’ll ever know.

She lets him lead her out of the room, absently running her fingers across the wall paper in the hall to remind herself she’s home. But it doesn’t really matter. Sure what was in the asylum isn’t here now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

She knows how real it is more than anyone else outside.

* * *

Jack was right, as always. Just the steam from the bath clears her nose and makes it easier to breathe, and with the door shut, the air is warm and humid. She can feel herself start to relax immediately, and she almost – _almost_ – forgets. But as he takes her hand and begins to pull it toward the water, to test the temperature, she jerks away.

She knows it’s irrational, but she finds she really doesn’t want to go near it.

The haunted look in his eyes as they meet hers says he understands all too well.

“I promise you it’s warm,” he says softly, and she nods, swallowing. She’s _home,_ it’s _over_ , everything is fine. But she still can’t force herself any closer. Not with the nightmares lingering at the periphery of her mind. Not when the memory of the icy torture still makes goosebumps rise on her arms.

He sighs, pulls off his shirt and throws it over the sink, then sits with her at the edge while she slowly lowers her feet into the water. His nose is buried in her neck, and though she can’t hear what he’s whispering, his tone distracts her enough that she can do it. Her hands are squeezing his with enough force to leave marks, but he still doesn’t pull away. They slide down little by little until finally they’re sitting in the tub, his pants and her chemise quickly absorbing the water and weighing them down. She leans back against him, cradled in his arms, her hair a web of tendrils fanned out across his chest and shoulders. More steam rises around them. She lets herself go limp.

“See?” he murmurs, lips inches from the top of her head. “Ain’t so bad.”

She smiles, afraid her voice will shake if she responds. His body forms a sort of protective barrier around her, one hand flat on her stomach and the other clutched in her own hands. She focuses on his breathing until their chests rise and fall together, one steady movement in an unsteady world.

They lay there, two scared, lonely kids neck deep in the water, until their skin is shriveled and the steam is long gone from the air. They don’t move until the chill is almost unbearable, though. After all, it’s easier to face than the darkness of her room.


	6. Chapter 6

Jack is already up and waiting for her, tea in hand, when Katherine wakes with a runny nose and eyes shining with determination.

He shakes his head as she crawls slowly from beneath the covers, weakly tugging open the closet door and pulling out the first outfit she sees. He waves the tea in front of her, hoping the steam will clear her sinuses, but she doesn’t even appear to notice the mug.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he tells her firmly once he realizes she’s dressing for work, trying to steer her back to the bed. Ignoring him, she rolls her eyes and starts taking the shirt off the hanger.

“I have to get back to the office,” she mutters, coughing a little. It’s obvious she’s miserable, but if anything, that seems to make her want to get away even more. “I know you were worried, Jack, but you can’t–“

“Here,” he says, cutting her off and handing her a roll of papers that was tucked into the waistband of his pants. “You really ain’t going anywhere, cause you don’t have to.”

She stares at him blankly for a moment, then accepts the pile and unrolls it. “Is this–“

“Your notes from last night,” he says, shrugging. “Grabbed ‘em on my way out – I figured you’d need it when you woke up.”

She stands on her tiptoes, reaching for a kiss, and he leans down in compliance. “You’re wonderful,” she says, then smacks his shoulder as he flashes a cocky grin.

“I know.”

He carries her to her desk – despite her shrill protests – and wraps her in a thick blanket while she begins typing away. The tea is balanced on the stack of notebooks next to the typewriter now, and Katherine pauses to take a sip and sighs.

“Did I say thank you for this yet?”

“Nope.” Jack shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “You were too busy trying to sneak past me and escape.”

“Oh.” She grins sheepishly. “Sorry. And thank you.”

He tugs at her hair absently, rubbing her back gently when she coughs again. “Think I deserve another kiss?”

“I don’t want you to get sick,” she protests weakly, but her resolve doesn’t last long.

His head on her shoulder, Jack alternates between watching her fingers fly over the keys and reading the words appearing on the page. He can tell already that the article is going to be a good one – she manages to strike the perfect balance between her personal experiences and other reports of the hospital to give her words weight. The machine spells out paragraphs about the patients crying out at night, descriptions of effects of drugs and cold baths – suddenly the night before makes more sense – and then falters in the midst of a sentence that makes his blood run cold.

“They hit you, too?” he asks in a deadly quiet voice, and he can feel her cringe against him.

“Only when I got too outspoken.”

“You’d better make this one hell of an article,” he manages to say, though his throat feels rough. They need to pay for everything they’ve done. And he’s sure that, with what Katherine has so far, they will. The asylum won’t last the year.

After he’s watched her for more than an hour, he remembers that neither of them had breakfast and wanders to the kitchen to see if she has anything edible on the shelves. She laughs as he goes through the pantry.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you.” Her genuine smile betrays her sarcastic tone. “What did you do when I wasn’t here?”

“Let’s just say I was a little cold and hungry,” he says softly. He’s only half kidding. And what he leaves out is the fact that he was also lonely and terrified.

The doorbell rings in the middle of his construction of a makeshift sandwich.

“Who is that?” Katherine’s voice emanates shrilly from the next room. “Tell them I’m not home.” Shrugging – he missed her so much he doesn’t mind her bossy tone – he makes his way over to her door and begins to tug it open.

“Mr. Kelly! What are you doing in my daughter’s apartment at this hour?”

Just in time, Jack recognizes the stern voice and slams the door shut again. Though he hasn’t exactly done anything specific wrong, his heart is pounding. Her father is here. He hadn’t expected that at all.

“It’s not that early, it’s after – wait, what? Kelly who?” Jack’s voice is an octave higher than usual.

“Mr. Kelly, I’m not playing games.” Indeed, his voice is anything but playful. As if Joseph Pulitzer even knew the meaning of the word.

“Sorry, Joe, you got it wrong. I’m just the guy she pays to answer the door when she ain’t available . . .” Jack leans against the door, but the old man is stronger than he looks. Before Jack knows it he’s forced himself inside and is standing in the kitchen, glaring at them both.

Somehow Katherine ended up with his shirt buttoned over her nightdress the previous night, and her father picks up on it immediately. Jack crosses his arms over his undershirt and scowls.

“Did you want somethin’, or were you just coming to pick a fight?”

“I _wanted_ to check on my daughter,” Pulitzer spits out, looking appalled at Jack’s tone as well as his presence. “I was worried about the condition she was in last night. But now I would like you to leave. Immediately.”

Now Pulitzer is holding the door open for him, but Jack simply scowls. He stops being nervous and focuses on his anger instead. “So let me get this straight, Joe. You have no problem sending your daughter into a place where they lock her up, poke her, freeze her and hit her. But you have a problem with me bringin’ her back here and making sure she’s okay?”

The look on Pulitzer’s face makes his answer all too clear. Jack snorts and spins away, coming to stand by Katherine, who has made her way over from her chair.

“I’m fine, Father,” she says cooly as Jack runs a hand angrily through his hair. “I’m sure you’ll breathe easier now that you know I’ll recover. I’ll have the article to you by tomorrow.” Her voice is dripping in sarcasm.

It is obvious from her tone that she has nothing more to say to her father, and he struggles to find a retort as well. After opening and closing his mouth several times, he jams his hat back on his head and turns to leave.

“Simply put it on my desk,” he says as he steps through the door. “There will be no need for you to linger.” The door closes with a sharp snap, and they are alone once more.

Katherine sighs and slumps against Jack, the fight leaving her in an instant as the exhaustion seeps back in. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I pissed him off,” he counters, almost apologetic. He eyes her guiltily. “An’ I was trying not to, too.”

Katherine makes a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I don’t even know why you try, honestly. Tell him to go to hell and we’ll get on with our lives.”

“He’s your father,” Jack says, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna do that.”

“I don’t care. He’s ridiculous, he–“

“I do care, though.” He leads her back to the chair and pulls the blanket around her shoulders again, then gently brushes her hair out from under it. “Some day, your father and I are gonna have to have a real important conversation about blessings. An’ then I’m gonna have to hope he don’t hate me that much, I suppose.” He blushes dark red and looks away, but his hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

At his admission, Katherine breaks down into real tears that turn into a hacking cough, and before long she and Jack both end up laughing.

“If you get better and make it till then,” he adds teasingly, patting her back as she regains her breath. And then she is breathless all over again as she pulls him into a kiss that makes him go even redder and has him panting as well.

“You’re going to get sick, too,” she repeats worriedly when they break apart.

He snorts, nuzzling her cheek. “Now that I don’t care about.”


	7. Chapter 7

The article is done by nightfall — as he knew it would be — and it’s printed less than a week later.

She doesn’t speak with her father when she goes to turn it in, and he doesn’t so much as congratulate her on its success once it’s in the papers. Although, if she’s honest with herself, she knows neither of them expected it any other way. He’ll forgive her — he always does. But she’d be a fool to think that they could ever be more than civil towards each other again.

Jack is beyond pleased, though, as she knew he would be. It’s her second front-page article, and judging by his grin, he’s confident there are more on the way. He picks her up and spins her around the room, yet while she smiles and laughs, she can barely feel his fingers digging into her hips. It must be cold in her apartment.

“You did it, Ace,” he murmurs against her hair when she’s slumped against him, the adrenaline that’s been getting her through the days despite not sleeping at night finally used up. “It’s over. You saved the world again.”

She shakes her head, stubborn and unconvinced now. “It’s far too late for some of those girls,” she says, her voice suddenly flat, not quite meeting his eyes. The brief spark of happiness that flashed through her eyes only moments before is entirely gone, and he can’t tell if it’s just due to exhaustion or if something else is wrong.

“You watch what happens next,” he tells her, pulling her into his arms and carrying her down the hall to her bed. She doesn’t even struggle — she must be more tired than he thought. “Things are gonna get better for everyone, you’ll see.”

 

The investigation at Blackwell’s Island begins on a Thursday several months after the article is released, and Katherine is there to watch it. From her place at Jack’s side on the lawn that’s far greener than she remembers, she sees the police go in, the nurses come out, the girls faces appearing at the windows upstairs as they gather to watch as their jailers are taken away. If any of them are crying now, she certainly can’t hear it. A few even smile, their faces pale through the glass.

At first she’s not sure the nurses being led away for questioning will recognize her, with her hair clean and down around her shoulders and her skirts pressed and her eyes bright and fiery once more. And many of them don’t, marching straight past her and the others gathered in the shadow of the asylum without so much as a glance in their direction. They hold their heads high, but they have no power here. Katherine Plumber will never be tortured by them again.

She wishes she could say the same about being haunted by them.

She remembers the nurse that turns back to get a second look at her in an instant, even if she can’t quite recall her name. And she knows in a second that she remembers her. “Kitty Parker,” the nurse sneers, and Katherine’s blood runs cold. “Or should I say, Pulitzer?”

Jack, ever her hero, steps closer to her. His hand on her shoulder steadies her breathing and her heart. “I guess you’re familiar with how she pulled this off, then?” he asks in a dangerous voice. Katherine expects to see some measure of fear on the nurse’s pasty face — just once, the reversal of roles would be comforting. But she simply smiles.

“I know you think you revealed some big lie here, Miss Pulitzer,” she says. “But weren’t you living a sort of lie yourself? Yes, this is some victory you’ve won.”

The final diagnosis, harsh truth wrapped in bitter sarcasm, cuts deep. She knows the nurse is referencing her feigned insanity, but she hasn’t felt the contrast between the girl who is a writer for the _Sun_ and the girl who is her father’s daughter since Jack learned her real name that afternoon in her father’s office over a year ago. Is she truly herself for anyone anymore?

In the end the asylum is not shut down, but with new staff, additional funding, and more comprehensive tests to ensure that only the truly insane are sent there, it’s almost as if they’ve won. On the ride home, Katherine tries to focus on Jack’s voice and not the echo of the nurse’s.

 

She learns the full repercussions of her article on a Monday morning in the spring. The sky is clear for the first time in a week, and aside from the occasional nightmare dragging her back to that cell, kicking and screaming, Blackwell’s is little more than a distant memory.

The comment isn’t directed at her, and she almost misses it as she runs down the sidewalk toward the _Sun’s_ office. The men speaking are tall and critical and dressed in uncomfortable-looking suits — not the sort of people she would normally pay any mind to. But their voices cut through her jumbled thoughts like a knife and bring her purposeful march to a screeching halt.

“Did you hear about the girls being sent from Blackwell’s?”

She flattens herself against the wall around the corner and strains her ears, managing to catch snippets of the conversation. “Thorough examinations . . . Girls turned away . . . Not taken back in by their families . . . So few places for them to go . . . Prostitution . . . Death . . .”

Jack’s face when she drags him out of the office looks alarmed, and she can only imagine how much worse her own expression must be, but she manages to wait until they’re outside in an alley before she breaks down in tears. He listens as she chokes out what she heard, his face growing paler by the word, and they make the unconscious decision to make their way through the city and burst into her father’s office simultaneously.

Joseph Pulitzer looks up from his desk with an expression on his face suggesting someone let a particularly bothersome fly into the room. Katherine doesn’t complain. She probably deserves it.

“You can’t save everyone,” he says calmly once she’s explained what she’s heard. He adjusts his glasses on his nose, as untouched by it all as ever. She wonders if he understands the guilt, the responsibility, for this misfire. Is he ever affected by what he prints?

She doubts it.

She tries not to cry again, knowing it won’t help where her father is concerned. At least he hasn’t thrown her out of his office, like he was probably considering initially when she and Jack barged in. But she feels so helpless as she paces back and forth, and she hates it, hates being so powerless that she needs to come crawling to this man. She wants it, _needs_ it to at least count for something.

“Please help them?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Katherine,” he says shortly. But even if he can fix something short-term with his fortunes and his fame, it’s only a matter of time before his generosity runs out like it did with her. In his mind, things have changed, whether for better or for worse. Her article has done it’s job.

And she supposes that it has. Her words did reveal a truth, though not necessarily one she was trying to bring light to. She has proved that the world is a chilling place, and she’s not sure there’s much she can do to change that. But she still doesn’t walk away from her typewriter that night, or the next, or the next. There are more stories to bring to light, more justice to seek, and more mistakes to learn from.

Maybe she can’t save everyone. But she is damn well going to try.


End file.
